


Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

by Robin_Fai



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Depression, Fancy didn't die, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Gosh these boys are cute, M/M, Morse is dense, Peter Jakes Didn't Leave Oxford, Post series 3 and kind of series 4 too, Sorry Not Sorry, Yes I did distracted from the last chapter of Songs, christmas day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-24 20:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22004341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Fai/pseuds/Robin_Fai
Summary: Peter Jakes was beginning to think that Morse was being intentionally dense.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 10
Kudos: 61





	Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stillicide_snow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillicide_snow/gifts).



> I was meant to be writing the last chapter of Songs but then I got distracted by a lovely bit about snow in 'and leaning backward in a pensive dream' by stillicide_snow. Do go and read that one if you haven't already as it is so beautifully cute.
> 
> Anyway, Peter Jakes is hopelessly smitten with our Endeavour Morse and can't work out if he is deliberately pretending not to notice, or if he genuinely hasn't. A silly bit of Christmas fluff.

Peter Jakes was beginning to think that Morse was being intentionally dense. 

It had started with small things. Clapping him on the shoulder in celebration of a case successfully closed. Catching his wrist when he wanted to get his attention, the touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary. Throwing his arm around his shoulders as everyone turned out for the evening and headed to the pub. 

His invite was always turned down, politely but bluntly. Morse wasn’t one for pointless fabrications when he just didn’t want to do something. It didn’t stop Peter from asking, because that was one of those rare times he could easily satisfy his need to touch the other man. For those few seconds while his arm lingered around Morse’s shoulders as they headed out into the cold of the evening, looking for all the world just like two mates, he could delude himself that Morse felt the same way as him.

The air was always so much more bitter when the inevitable happened and Morse would shrug off his touch, and give him that polite smile that never reached his eyes, and refuse. 

It started with the small things, and he told himself he would have to be content with that. 

But then there was the incident at the Morell’s when he had to pull Morse out of the path of an oncoming brick aimed at his head. He had pulled him out of the way of the furious man they had come to arrest just in time, but Morse, not having seen what had been coming for him, had not expected the move and had stumbled. Peter had then tripped over a rug, and they had come crashing down to the floor. Morse had landed on top of him, each still gripping the others arms from where they had attempted to prevent the fall. Their bodies pressed together, faces so close, noses almost touching, and Peter had taken a surprised breath because there was a moment, just a moment, where he thought they might kiss. 

But then Morse had quickly disentangled himself and run off in pursuit of the culprit who was now fleeing the scene, without so much as a backwards glance, and Peter was left wondering if he had imagined the whole thing.

After that he promised himself to drop the matter, but his heart had other ideas. He found himself watching Morse all the time, and every now and then Morse would catch him, throw him a baffled look, and then carry on with whatever he had been doing. He found himself crafting the most ridiculous of excuses to go over and talk to Morse. The conversation would invariably fall flat due to the feeble nature of the excuses he had concocted. Then they would be left staring awkwardly at one another until Morse would turn back to the task at hand.

The worst was his constant need to be in contact with Morse. In a crowded room he would make sure he stood next to Morse, their shoulders touching, just normal enough in a small space that it wouldn’t draw attention if he didn’t make a thing of it. So he would act like he hadn’t noticed, and Morse would stand there completely oblivious. 

It was the same if Thursday took them to the pub at lunch. If Morse sat in a bench seat he would sit next to him so that their legs were pressed together. It was usually busy, so it wouldn’t be odd to have to squeeze up next to someone else, but they were two insubstantial coppers on a seat that was clearly big enough for three at a push. He had been sure the first time he did it that it would draw some kind of reaction, but there was nothing, absolutely sod all. So he carried on. Morse sat on the bench seat more often than not, and he wanted to delude himself that he was the reason for that, but surely he would have said something.

The year rolled on, and Peter found himself getting more and more overt in his obsession with Morse. He got to work earlier so that he could be there when he arrived, stayed on late when Morse did, asked him to the pub practically every other day. Sometimes, when they were both heading out he would make sure he got up quicker so he could help Morse into his coat.

Sometimes, when he was feeling braver, he would make Morse a cup of tea. He would land it on his desk without comment as they talked through the finer points of a crime scene or a case, and then leave it there when he left. The gentle smile that would spread across Morse’s face as he absent-mindedly drank the abandoned offering without question would leave him breathless.

One evening as they left ‘coincidentally’ at the same time, he stopped Morse before he could leave to ask about some insignificant detail of a case they were working on. Morse gave him a polite smile and humoured him by stopping, but he shifted from foot to foot in a clear sign he wanted to get away to whatever was calling to him more than Peter’s presence. As they stood there talking it began to snow. 

Up until then Peter had always hated snow, could never see the appeal of it, cold, wet, and messy. From that day forward he held a new kind of grudging affection for it. He thought to himself he had never seen anything so beautiful as the soft white flakes that settled in the soft red waves of Morse’s hair. He watched as the other man looked up into the night sky, the light from the station reflected in his eyes like fire, and the gentle whiteness melting upon his flushed, angular, features. 

Morse had looked back to Peter and laughed, before stepping close to him and brushing snow from his dark winter coat. Before he could think twice, he had reached up and was in turn brushing the snow from Morse, but in this case his hair. It was as soft as he had always imagined. Realising what he was doing he had frozen, hand still resting upon his head, and waited to see what Morse would do. Surely this would get a reaction if nothing else. He had basically stroked the man’s hair for goodness sake. He cleared his throat and quickly stuffed his hands in his pockets lest they betray him any further. Morse had only smiled and bid him good evening before heading off into the slowly whitening night.

Maybe Morse really was being intentionally dense he told himself. Maybe he had seen the way Peter couldn’t help but be drawn to him and had chosen to politely ignore it. 

He had to stop being so daft. No more coming in early, no more sitting so close that he could practically feel the other man’s pulse, no more loitering and asking him to the pub at the slightest excuse. 

For a couple of weeks he shut himself off from the world in a morose bubble. The festive season was looming. Everyone knew how much he ‘hated’ Christmas so no one questioned his dark mood. They laughed and called him Scrooge. In matter of fact he didn’t hate Christmas at all. He had never had a Christmas was his problem. How can you know if you hate something if you’ve never experienced it. He didn’t begrudge anyone their happy family gatherings, big festive meals, and countless presents. He wasn’t exactly jealous; he just wondered what it was like, to have someone, anyone, care enough to be there on such a day. He wondered what a family was like. 

If Morse noticed that he was now almost avoiding him he didn’t say anything. 

He had stopped going to the pub at lunch, making excuses to be off on enquiries elsewhere. His immaculate suits didn’t thank him for this sudden aversion to food and beer. Somehow, eating alone no longer held the attraction it had in days gone by. 

In meetings, he stood on the opposite side of the room, and he made sure in general not to be drawn into the old temptation to stare at Morse, talk at Morse, or generally follow him round like a lovesick puppy. OK, he knew he hadn’t been that bad. Even if Morse hadn’t noticed someone else would have if he had been so transparent.

Once or twice Morse came over to discuss an enquiry with him, and he might have wondered at that at another time; Morse never asked for another officer’s opinion like that, but by then he was too consumed by his own misery to really notice. Between his new ‘no harassing Morse’ rule and the oncoming festivities he found himself as low as he had ever been in recent years.

As usual, he had volunteered to be on the rota for a shift on Christmas day. Let everyone else have fun with their families. He could safely hole up here in the station with his unhappiness and his vodka. He didn’t bother to check the rota. He knew what the other names would be. A very small selection of the lonely old men division of Oxford City Police. He would be the only one in CID.

Christmas Eve thankfully arrived before too long. He didn’t think he could bear this time of year much longer. For all that the daylight hours were shorter, that meant an appallingly long amount of time sat, alone, in the dark of his flat. Sleep eluded him, leaving him with even more time on his hands. Yet he couldn’t seem to rouse himself to actually do anything. Cooking and cleaning fell by the wayside, and bottles gathered in the bins, before spreading out to other parts of his place.

There were less officers in the station than usual. In CID it was only him, Thursday, and Morse. When clocking off time finally crawled around Thursday tried to entice the two of them to the pub. Morse excused himself, citing a choir performance. Peter fabricated a drinks party. The last thing he needed was an evening in the pub with the Inspector.

Outside there was frost already on the windows. He walked away from the station, head down, unwilling to see the beauty of the glaze of glittering water, illuminated by occasional Christmas lights, that decorated the streets. The world kept turning. This was but another day. He could carry on through it all, despite it all, the sun would rise whether or not he saw it.

His feet took him all around town rather than home, letting the cold seep into his bones. He wasn’t sure where he was going, nor how long he walked. Eventually it was the melodious rise and fall of carols drifting into the street that stopped him in his tracks. He paused for a while, entranced. This was the college Morse had mentioned. One of those voices was his. He’d not been to a carol concert since he was a child, but he vividly recalled all the words. When they began on In the Bleak Midwinter it was enough to bring tears to his eyes. He lit a cigarette with hands that shook with something other than cold, then turned and fled back to his lonely flat.

The dawn saw him already at the station again. He had dragged himself from his bed before the sun was up, gathered a bottle, and settled himself at his desk with a glass, a radio, and a set of reports he had no intention of typing up. The day dragged on painfully slowly. He made his way steadily through the bottle of vodka and then the previous sleepless nights caught up with him and he fell asleep on the desk.

He awoke to the rhythmic click-clack of typewriter keys. Jolting upright from where he had fallen asleep on his desk, he looked around wildly and settled his eyes upon Morse. The other man paused in his typing and gave him one of those heart stopping half smiles. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” Morse said with a sort of laugh, then turned back to the typewriter.

“What are you doing here?” Peter tried to straighten his loose tie, and ran his hand through his hair. He had no doubt he looked pretty dishevelled compared to normal. His heart was still beating too fast from his abrupt awakening.

“Thought I’d get a bit done while it was so quiet.” Morse pulled the document from the typewriter and nodded to the already open bottle of vodka. “Drinking on the job?” He asked with a smirk.

“Never normally anyone else in.” He retorted, before realising that rather gave away that this was a regular thing for him. He ducked his head to hide the shame that crept through him.

“Care to share?” 

He shrugged, “I’ve only got the one glass.”

“I’ve got a mug.”

“Classy.” He passed the bottle to Morse and he poured himself a liberal measure into an old, chipped, mug.

“People keep accusing me of that. I really can’t see how they’re so blind to the obvious evidence to the contrary.” Morse said with another smile. He refilled Peter’s glass and handed it to him. Then he offered the mug up in a toast. “Merry Christmas!”

“Yeah, right, that.” Peter grumbled and downed the viciously strong liquid.

“Steady on.”

“’Cause you’re one to talk.” Despite himself he felt better for the company. He couldn’t remember the last time he'd actually had a real conversation with someone on Christmas. “Why aren’t you up with your family?” He asked.

Morse gave a derisive snort and curled his lip. “Don’t really have one any more.” He waited for the awkward question about why he was working but it didn’t come, instead Morse asked, “you got somewhere to go after your shift, company, girlfriend to see perhaps?”

“I don’t really do Christmas,” he answered, dodging the question.

“Yeah, me too.” Morse perched on the desk next to his. “My Mother...” He paused and glanced to Peter before continuing, “she didn’t really go in for it much but we did celebrate a bit. After she died...” he looked at his shoes now, “well, they did the usual Christmas things but... Gwen never much cared for me. I always felt like a spare part. Didn’t go back for it once I left home, until a couple of years ago.”

“Why’d you go back for it then?” 

Morse contemplated the vodka in his mug, then downed it. “Well, my Father had just died. I wasn’t exactly there for Christmas so much as to arrange the funeral and so on.” Peter could have kicked himself. Of course he knew that. He couldn’t think what to say so instead he lifted the bottle in offering. Morse held out his mug and he refilled it. “Then last year I was in prison,” he said with a wry smile, “so it could be worse.”

Peter felt like banging his head against the desk. How could he have forgotten? He’d been so consumed by his own melancholy that he’d not even stopped to think about what Morse had gone through the last few years, nor consider that he might not have anywhere to go. He couldn’t have fixed that, but he could have been a bit more kind the last couple of weeks.

“I don’t remember ever celebrating Christmas like- well, like normal folks do I guess.” He said as a kind of offering. Morse had confided in him, he could try and do the same.

“Guess we’re sort of in the same boat” Morse glanced to the door and back to Peter. He looked uncomfortable suddenly. Well, more uncomfortable than usual. “Are you… alright? These past couple of weeks… you’ve seemed out of sorts.”

The questions caught him off guard. He considered his glass, swirling the vodka round in it. “Don’t tell me you were worried about me?”

“I always worry about you.” It sounded like a joke, but he could read the concern in Morse’s face. 

“I’m… I’m fine Morse. Just don’t like December much.” He tried to smile but really he felt like crying. 

“I got in some bits...” Morse gave him a nervous glance, “nothing much, nothing fancy... just something to have something like a proper Christmas dinner... You could join me if you liked?” Morse said haltingly. Was that hope in those cold blue eyes? “I’m not exactly great company I know, but I’d hate it to go to waste and if you’re on your own too...” He added hurriedly.

The question hung there between them. Peter could feel his pulse in his fingers. He fished around in his pocket for a cigarette and lit it quickly to give his hands something to do.

“Thought you weren’t exactly keen on my company. Always refused the offer of the pub.” 

Morse shrugged, his expression clouding. He was wearing that distant and uncaring mask once more. He instantly regretted his words.

“I’m… I’m not good company. You know that. People… they don’t… don’t like me. I’m too odd for them. Don’t exactly... fit into any of the boxes they’d like to put me in.”

“You’re not exactly everyone’s cup of tea, yeah, but you’re alright.” It was about the most half-hearted compliment he had ever given anyone, but he knew Morse wouldn’t care for platitudes. 

“I did appreciate you offering, Peter, but… I wouldn’t want to inflict my company on anyone most of the time.”

He tried not to let it thrill him too much that Morse had called him Peter. He could count on one hand the number of times he had called him that. He took a drag of his cigarette.

“That’s why you always said no?” Morse shrugged. “Christ, Morse, I like your company.” Morse frowned at that in the same way he did when he was trying to work out a puzzle, or strange aspect of a case. It seemed like other people were as much of a problem to solve for him as crimes were. _To hell with his resolution._ He stubbed out the cigarette, got to his feet, a little unsteadily courtesy of the vodka and lack of any decent breakfast or lunch, and placed a hand on Morse’s shoulder. He tried to ignore the butterflies in his stomach at so simple a touch. “If you really think you can put up with _my_ company, and the offer still stands, then I’d love to come over.”

Morse gave him a true smile then, a wide grin that lit up his expressive face. “Of course you’re welcome!” Morse lifted his own hand to over Peter’s on his shoulder. His heart stuttered at the casual touch. Morse’s hand was so soft and warm against his own. “When do you finish up here?”

Peter glanced at the clock, noted that it was already late into the afternoon, and then wondered how long he had been asleep, and exactly how long Morse had been typing at his desk while he slept. He felt his face grow hot and quickly pulled his hand back and looked to his shoes. “About quarter of an hour ago.”

“Great, lets get going then!” Morse downed the remainder of his vodka and set the mug down. He set his things right on his desk then shrugged on his coat while Peter attempted to tidy the mess on his own desk. He moved to stow the vodka in a drawer but Morse’s hand stopped him, resting lightly on his wrist. “Bring that along?” He looked up into smiling eyes. He set the vodka back down on his desk and Morse offered him his coat, helping him into it. 

When had their roles in this play reversed? He couldn’t help but wonder now if Morse was trying to give him a sign, but for the life of him he couldn’t see anything beyond simple kindness. His heart was drowning once more, adrift in eyes as blue as the ocean, and he didn’t know the way to dry land. Was he now being the dense one?

“Morse…?” He reached out aiming to catch Morse’s wrist to stop him but instead he caught his hand. His breath caught in his chest. He wanted to ask what this was, but he didn’t know how to take that leap. It was such a risk. Morse turned back to him in the doorway to CID. Something above them caught Peter’s eye. “Who the hell puts mistletoe in a police station?!” He frowned at the offending foliage in confusion, completely distracted from his previous line of thought.

“Probably Fancy’s idea of a joke.” Morse replied with a laugh, also looking up to the mistletoe. 

His words jolted Peter back to the moment and he realised they were still holding hands, and now they were stood so very close together, in a doorway, beneath a sprig of mistletoe.

“Ah… right...” He was pretty sure he was blushing _again._

“Was that what you wanted to ask?” Morse asked with a tilt of his head.

_Was he really that dense?!?_ Peter was finding it hard to breathe evenly, let alone reply. Maybe there was only one was to find out…? 

He closed the small space between them and softly placed a single kiss on Morse’s lips. His heart was beating so fast, and his hands were hot. He desperately wanted to deepen the kiss, to take the beautifully angular man into his arms, and run his hands through that wonderfully soft hair, but instead he stepped back. He needed to be able to pass this off as a joke when it so inevitably went wrong.

Morse stared at him, eyes wide and startled, like a deer in the headlights. There were flecks of gold amidst the blue of his eyes that he had never noticed before. Morse opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before finally breathing out a simple “Oh!” He ran his hand over the back of his neck, an anxious gesture, but he didn’t start yelling at Peter about what had happened. “Oh, that… that makes… sense now I guess.” He stuttered.

Peter had his answer. Morse really was that dense. Not intentionally, just completely oblivious. He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly to try and regain some calm. There was no passing this off as a joke now. 

“You know you could have just told me.” Morse said. He opened his eyes to see the other man smiling at him. It was a shy kind of smile, and he couldn’t quite hold eye contact, his eyes flicking between their hands and Peter’s face. Their hands? _They were still holding hands!_ “You know what I’m like… Could’ve taken years for me to notice.” Then Morse leaned forward and once more they were kissing, and oh! but it was everything Peter had ever dreamed of, and so much more.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas everyone! Hope you liked this latest nonsense.
> 
> Ok! Distraction over. Back onto Songs now...


End file.
